


Beginner's Luck

by callmeonetrack



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 18:36:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9284858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmeonetrack/pseuds/callmeonetrack
Summary: Pre-mini; Like triad, boot camp is all a game. Kara learns to win at both with help and guidance from Helo.





	

**Triad Tip #1: You’ve gotta play to win.**

In Kara’s opinion, _this_ is by far the worst part of boot camp.

She can handle the reveille calls staggered around the ass crack of dawn every day—0345, 0425, 0505, can’t let the recruits get too comfortable. The drill instructors barking in your face aren’t a big deal— they yell a lot, but they can’t deny you food, can’t hit you, and gotta give you four hours sleep—which is a sweeter deal than what she had at home with the Sergeant Major. Even the most brutal physical training courses—the ones where they crawl on their bellies through the mud till her knee aches like a bitch—are a walk in the park compared to this: _down time_.

There’s a lot more of it than she’d expected. Every night they have an hour or so free between weapons cleaning and lights out. A lot of the recruits write letters. Kara’s got no frakking idea who she’d send one to even if she did have anything to say. First few nights she just lays on her rack and stares at the ceiling. Doesn’t talk to anyone, doesn’t sleep. She’s pretty sure the others figure she’s homesick, like that towhead kid who cried through the scant hours of sleep they got the first two nights then passed out from exhaustion on day three. They’re so frakking wrong. Kara doesn’t bother to correct them though. She figures they couldn’t begin to understand how it feels to finally be free.

Immediately following intake her division mates had clustered up, forming little bonds. She tells herself that’s not what she’s here for. After a couple days, a pattern develops. The weapons are cleaned and inspected, then as soon as the DIs take off, the ones who aren’t busy writing or reading, shove a couple cots together and out comes the deck.

The cards are contraband. First day, the DIs had cycled through a long list of all the things they aren’t supposed to have here—stogies, alcohol, sex, pretty much anything that could make life worth living—and made them dump their bags out on the floor. But she’d seen the recruit next to her, a freakishly tall, pale guy they called Agatha or something weird like that, shove the deck into one of his socks. He’d caught her looking and winked.

He’s the one who calls to her on day five. “Hey, Thrace, we need another body. You in?”

She’s not sure why she gets up. Maybe the novelty of enjoying her solitude has worn off. Or maybe it’s the guy’s dopey grin that hooks her. He was quick enough to hide the cards though, so Kara figures he’s gotta be smarter than he looks. In spite of herself, she pulls up a chair, intrigued.

The big guy nods to her; his massive hands rifle through the deck, shuffling with a rapidfire technique that she begrudgingly admires. He catches her glance and grins. “You any good at triad?”

“Never played.”

He stops shuffling, jaw going agape as he stares. “You’re kidding me.”

Kara’s back stiffens and she rolls a shoulder. She bares her teeth in a semblance of a grin. “I don’t exactly come from a fun-and-games kind of family.” She narrows her eyes at him. “You gonna deal before sun up or what?”

He deals (and she was close on the name; it’s Agathon, first name Karl, but no one ever uses those here) and he and the other recruits outline the basic mechanics of the game, the cards, how to bet. Money was confiscated so they tear up an old magazine and use the shreds as cubits.

She loses the first four hands, but the fifth one she wins. It’s more down to sheer accident than skill, but it still feels pretty good.

When the others rumble about beginner’s luck, Agathon just flashes her that easy smile and says, “Glad you decided to get in the game.”

 

_**Triad Tip #2: Don’t bet too big too fast.** _

A week later, she’s still losing more than she’s winning. Agathon takes most of the hands, playing with a stealthy, cunning style, which she wouldn’t have pegged to the easy-going private. But when Kara does win, she wins big. Kara’s style is all or nothing, and somehow she manages to pull out full colors when it really counts. She starts to get a reputation for extreme moves.

It bleeds over from the card games. The first rule of boot camp is a simple one: You don’t want to give the DIs any reason to know your name. Recruit Division Commander Masterson zeroed in on her day two, when she was stupid enough to make eye contact once, and hasn’t stopped riding her since. Soon Kara’s doing pushups, mountain climbers, and side straddle hops, face planted on the deck as often as the weight recruits (the ones who don’t meet the colonial standard fitness requirements). She takes it in stride, doesn’t flinch at the woman’s bad breath as she hollers at her chin (the RDC’s on the short side) about Kara being useless and lazy and unfit to wear the BDUs.

She tries harder. Passes her physical training courses with flying colors (which she expected, because pyramid training was no joke either) but also aces her marksmanship course and it’s her first time holding a weapon. The stock fits her hand like a glove and she’s the only recruit in the division who manages to hit the target more than once after ten minutes on the gyroscope. And Masterson’s still up her ass, barking about how off-center the shots are. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s pouring buckets or that asshole Jackson is smirking just over the RDC’s shoulder (how come they never catch that smarmy bastard?) or that sand fleas are biting her ass, but Kara finally snaps.

“I am the best shot in the class, sir!”

RDC Masterson smiles and Kara knows she’s made a tactical error. “And you think that makes you something special, Recruit?”

She pauses, knowing she shouldn’t, but she grins down at the woman anyway, making direct eye contact with the irritating little frakker. “Well, Momma always did say I was special. Sir.”

Someone down the line gasps and Masterson goes red in the face, orders her down to do a punishing amount of pushups and situps. It’s twice the PT standard but she does them, feeling nauseous and frozen with the cold rain dripping down her neck and inexplicably seeping through her steel-toed boots planted in the muck. Her arms are shaking and her gut burning when she’s finished. The other recruits grumble as they’re finally dismissed to change for dinner.

Kara curls up in the head, spending ten of her twenty minutes before she has to report to the mess puking into one of the toilets. The third time she lifts her head, Agathon’s looming over her blocking out the light. He’s got an arm propped up on the stall wall and he’s just watching her and shaking his head.

“What the frak do you think you’re doing, Thrace?”

She bites back a groan and swipes at her mouth. “What does it look like? Yakking up the last of breakfast and if you stand there long enough, you’ll get a shot at seeing lunch make a return trip too.” Just saying it makes her bend again over the bowl, but only dry heaves rack her body this time.

Kara expects him to walk away, but instead he bends, hands on his knees, his chin a foot over her head still, “I meant out there. She’s just trying to get under your skin, you know. You just gotta let it roll off. No matter what.”

She knows this, she does. She’s seen the RDCs testing the other recruits, preying on the ones who are too weak, or conversely, the ones who are too arrogant. The sensitive ones got drummed out early; there’s more than a dozen empty racks in the barracks now. It pisses her off that she let herself fall into their trap.

“Oh gee, really? Gods, I’m not supposed to let it get to me?” She widens her eyes in mock amazement. “And here I’ve been doing it all wrong.” She stands up, flushes the toilet and wipes her hands on her BDUs. She tilts her head and looks up at Agathon who’s standing again too. “Who asked you to play the hero, alright?” She sneers. “I can take care of myself.”

He doesn’t roll his eyes, but he looks like he wants to. “Yeah, I can see you’re doing a real great job of that.” His eyes lower purposefully to her chest, and suddenly Kara thinks she understands all his interest and concern. But when she follows his gaze, she realizes he’s not checking out her rack so much as eying the dribble of vomit on her tanks.

“Basic’s just as much of a game as triad, Thrace. Go all in every hand and you’re gonna burn out sooner or later.” He nods his head. “You gotta pace yourself.”

Kara stares at him with his earnest gaze and his fortune cookie wisdom. She knows he’s trying to help her, but she just can’t figure out why. What’s in it for him? “Gods, what do you care?”

He looks at her for a minute, and she can tell he’s sizing her up, like he does when he gets the first deal and can’t decide which card to play. “Can’t win every hand myself.” Agathon winks. “A little competition’s good for the soul.”

Kara watches as he walks away. The frakker's actually whistling, and her lips are just starting to curve into a smile when she feels lunch  
trying to make a hasty re-appearance.

_**Triad Tip #3: Watch the other players and get to know their tells.** _

Everything about boot camp revolves around being a team player. You eat, sleep, piss, do everything together, nearly on top of each other. Kara has never been one, not really. Even when she played pyramid, she was on offense, always getting yelled at by the coach for not passing enough, hotdogging it on the court. Her competitive streak’s wide enough that she can get caught up in the petty stuff, but she soon figures out it’s not about who's on line first or last but if the entire division is on line together.

Every night she checks the schedule the instructors post. They keep it down to the minute, because the RDCs get in trouble if the division’s late to things. Kara finds it helps to know exactly what kind of fresh hell each new day would hold. She learns quickly that it’s not so hard to endure anything when you already know exactly when it will end.

Sometimes the schedule changes but mostly their day begins with hard hours of physical training courses, followed by early afternoons in the classroom, then a skill or endurance course before drill practice, then dinner.

They have hours of classes every day. She memorizes terminology and rank structure until it’s coming out of her ears. It’s a bitch trying to stay lucid, because they get up early and have hard PT all morning and the academic stuff starts just after lunch. If you do fall asleep and get caught, the DI bends your ear and sends you to the back of the room to do push-ups and sit-ups till you’re wide awake. Kara’s never been an early riser and when her head starts to nod, sometimes Agathon, who ends up sitting next to her most days, will poke her. When she catches him leaning in his chair, she returns the favor and kicks his ankle under the table.

They graduate to a live fire range and Kara takes to it like a duck to water. When she’s first in the squadron to pass the Basic Rifle Marksmanship test, she just manages to bite back her smirk when RDC Masterson grudgingly congratulates her. Agathon flashes her a discreet thumbs up and Kara smiles back for she even realizes she’s doing it.

They sit down for triad at 0800. He calls her Sharpshooter all night and when they go head-to-head on the last hand, he folds. Strangely, Kara’s pretty sure he threw it in on purpose. For a guy who’s so open and relaxed most of the time, Agathon’s pretty circumspect when it comes to cards. But three times tonight he reached up and scratched the bridge of his nose; three times he won the hand.

So she raises an eyebrow when he scratches again on the last hand, then promptly lays the cards face down. Agathon just says something about how it’s only fitting that to the victor go the spoils and she realizes suddenly, it’s a gesture. The sentimental fool’s way of saying congratulations. Not like she needs his charity to win. For the mere implication otherwise, she should be pissed. It stays on her mind long after lights out.

Kara falls asleep smiling. 

_**Triad Tip #4: Don’t underestimate the luck of the draw.** _

It gets easier after that. She learns to embrace it.

Learns it’s good to volunteer for the tough stuff. She figures out quickly that when it’s your division’s turn to clean the head, you don’t want to be the last man standing around without a job or you’ll be the one scrubbing toilets with toothbrushes.

She learns how to fold clothes without any wrinkles, make a bed so tight it makes a cubit bounce, spit-shine her shoes till she can see her reflection in them.

Learns some stuff that’s not drilled into her by the instructors, too. The RDCs take them out for an overnight and tell them if they catch anyone sleeping, they’ll all be doing three hours of intensive training (the most rigorous and relentless round of calisthenics possible) as punishment. Agathon hunkers down next to her in the woods and starts talking. He keeps his voice low and clams up whenever the RDC makes a pass by, but he starts up again when it’s clear. Kara’s not much for small talk but she finds she likes the sound of his voice in the dark. It’s… almost soothing.

“So where you headed after this? What kind of AT program?”

“Vipers.” She doesn’t have to think twice about where her advanced training will be. She’s wanted to be a fighter pilot since the first time she went to an airshow with her mom as a kid and saw them swirling and dipping in all that blue. They were graceful and powerful, and she can’t wait until she takes one out, up among the stars.

“Yeah. I’m going for flying too.”

Kara cocked her head and looked at the lanky, overgrown recruit, then snorted.

“Raptors, I’m guessing?’

“How’d you know?

“You wouldn’t fit in a viper cockpit.”

He chuckles, unoffended. “Yeah, they can’t contain the magnificent specimen that is one Karl Agathon.”

Kara smirks, but is prevented from uttering a biting comeback as the RDC sweeps by, giving them a suspicious glare. She busies herself with cleaning her weapon and sneaking peeks at Agathon every so often. She’s gotten pretty good at sizing people up over the years, figuring out their angles, the way they play the game. Agathon’s easy to read (except for at the triad table, where no one else has seemed to notice he’s using all that aw-shucks charm to bluff his way to winning the pot), he’s open and honest and he’s a good guy. So it’s bugging her that she still can’t figure out what he wants from her. In the end, she just blurts it out.

“So, you going for a Good Samaritan award here or something?” She keeps her eyes trained on her weapon, rubbing the barrel methodically with the worn fabric cloth.

“Huh?”

She stills, her shoulders tensing. “Why are you so damn… _friendly_ all the time?”

Agathon laughs. “It’s rough here. Doesn’t everyone need friends?

“Well, yeah but…I don’t see you dogging Jackson’s heels.” She lifts her head, catches his eye and stares straight at him. Kara takes a breath and braces herself. “Why me?”

It’s hard to make out his expression in the darkness. “That first day, you stomped into induction with a chip on your shoulder the size of a boulder. I thought, okay, Kara Thrace, this one’s gonna be a nightmare.” She raises an eyebrow. It’s the first time in six weeks she’s been called Kara. But Agathon just smirks. “Figured I’d keep an eye on you, just in case.”

She rolls her eyes, then goes back to cleaning her gun, but he keeps talking. “But then… then you surprised me. I caught the way you covered for Lyndon when she pissed herself that third day of PT.”

Kara’s head snaps up in surprise, but then she shrugs and bows her head again, mumbling, “I don’t know what you’re going on about. I just spilled my canteen.”

He nods slowly. “Yeah…at her feet so the RDC wouldn’t see the puddle she made.” He laughs and Kara tries not to but gives in after a minute. She’d gotten fifty pushups for that, but she hadn’t minded much. Lyndon was a little weak but she was alright. The girl had lent her an extra pair of socks the first morning when Kara realized she didn’t have enough, and she hadn’t made a big deal of it either.

She watches Agathon, who’s still laughing and shrugs. “Guess I wasn’t thirsty that day.“

He tilts his head as if to say _yeah right_ and grins back. “Guess I just figured you’d be someone good to know. “

Kara’s glad it’s dark enough to hide the flush that rises in her cheeks. They quiet down again as the RDC makes another patrol, but it’s more comfortable this time. When she can barely make out the RDC’s silhouette down the line, Agathon breaks the silence again.

“Too bad you’re set on being one of those hotshot viper jocks. Maybe we could’ve flown together.”

Kara knows she’ll never go for raptors. Vipers are in her blood. But she opens her mouth and just says, “Who knows? Maybe we will, Karl.”

He raises an eyebrow and shoots her a surprised smile, and even though it’s so cold out her toes and fingers are going numb, Kara feels warm as she smiles back. They sit there grinning like idiots long enough for her to feel silly.

So she says, “Not that vipers aren’t a thousand times superior to those glorified minibuses you’ve got a hard-on for. ”

“Minibus! What?! Ow! Way to wound a guy, Thrace.” He clutches his chest dramatically. “You know, personally, I’ve always thought viper jocks had to be overcompensating for something.” He leans close enough for her to see him and wiggles his eyebrows.

She laughs and grabs a handful of dirt and pelts him with it. He returns fire and soon they’re both laughing until they can’t stop, even when the RDC comes around and screams at them and gives them another hour of IT. With effort, they manage to sober up and Kara starts thinking about how hard tomorrow will be. But she knows she’ll get through it. She looks at Karl, whose face is red and shoulders are still shaking. Maybe she’s starting to get the hang of things around here.

Maybe it’s beginner’s luck.


End file.
